


A Very Practical Princess

by Windian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/F, Smut, Temperature Play, sorry it got sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 02:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12520940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windian/pseuds/Windian
Summary: Noctis might be her betrothed and beloved, but Lady Lunafreya is a grown woman with needs, and she's nothing if not practical.





	A Very Practical Princess

For all that you endure, no other woman in the world can claim to have their own goddess as their familiar.

The acknowledgement is unspoken. Not that you and Gentiana have ever _discussed_ it, just has you have learned in the long years since Tenebrae's annexation that it is better to hold anything dear to you to your chest. Phone calls are bugged, the Empire's men have taken home in the Nox Fleuret manor, and even in your brother Ravus's heart.

The goddess is your sole confidant: only you can see her, and _she_ only speaks with you.

You met Gentiana twenty years ago, but it seems longer. You don't remember a time when the Messenger wasn't your shadow.

It's past sunset when you manage to sink down into your bath, willing the hot water to leech some of the tension in your muscles. Curing the afflicted takes it out of you. You squeeze your shoulder muscle, wincing at the tight, trapped feeling.

There's a cool touch at your shoulder.

“My lady,” Gentiana says. An old offer.

“Please,” you tell her.

The soft familiar rustling of Gentiana's robes as she kneels behind you, her fingertips going to work on releasing the tension, working out the stubborn knots and kinks in your shoulders. If there was any other doubt, Gentiana's touch is always spine-tinglingly chilly. Contrasted with the hot bath water, it feels good, and exciting. You breathe out a long shuddering sigh.

“Have I ever told you how good you are at this?”

There's a coy smile in the goddess's voice. “Often,” she says.

You turn in the bathtub to kiss her. An important point to note: Gentiana's lips are soft and warm. For you, her kisses are never cold.

She'd taught you how, years ago, when you were red-faced and stammering, but also indignant, because you were to marry one day but you weren't to even go _near_ boys. So how would you know what you were supposed to _do_?

You might be a princess, but you're a _practical_ princess.

Gentiana had told you that no doubt your future husband would be happy to teach you, but that was exactly the point. You'd been prepared for a political marriage since birth: let you at least be a willing participant, instead of a blushing virginal gift, dressed in a pretty bow. Even if fate had you by its strings, let you choose _this_ , at least.

Gentiana had agreed. Nineteen and never kissed, you'd learned a great deal that year about kissing. And about other things that were even better than kissing.

You shudder now, from chill and excitement, as Gentiana slips out of her night-black robes and into the water and in between your legs. She kisses you as sweetly as she had on a window balcony years ago when Ravus had walked in, and Gods, hadn't his face been funny, catching you kissing thin air? Her breasts press flush up against you, soft and cool and heavy, the ice leached out of her skin by the heat of the water. Where your skin touches it feels relaxing, and you tighten your grip around her waist, bringing your goddess in closer to you.

You forget about the starscourge, the empire, the trappings of fate. You forget about the tears in Gentiana's eyes—the tears she hides when the two of you speak frankly of yours and dear Noctis's destiny. You simply _feel,_ toes curling as Gentiana slips cool fingers between your folds, rubbing up against that sweet spot. When your orgasm hits you, you can't help but cling to her, so tightly your nails leave crescent-shaped imprints in her flesh. Gentiana doesn’t seem to mind, for she holds you ever tighter as you weather the shivers that rack your body. You want her to hold onto you and never let you go.

“It's not fair,” Gentiana tells you, her eyes open, impossibly, inhumanly dark. “It's not--”

“It's okay.” It's not okay, but you bring Gentiana's head to rest on your shoulder, stroking your fingers through damp hair. “Gentiana, it's alright.”

You're nothing but practical, which means over the years you've become a terribly good liar.

 

 


End file.
